Paths of Desire
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: [Set between 2x09 and 2x10] He's done this a thousand times, memorized every inch of her bare skin, branded it with his lips and tongue. The familiarity is a comfort - the first thing to make sense in too long to even comprehend.


_Notes: Written because onceuponatimeismylife has a birthday today and would like to see more Snowing tacos. ;)_

* * *

**Paths of Desire**

His family is asleep.

His _family_.

Not just his wife, or just his grandson, but his wife and daughter and grandson all asleep beneath the same roof for the first time.

He watches Emma curl around her son, even in sleep. It's still a marvel to him, to think that his baby has had a baby of her own. His baby - his child that had been so tiny and fragile in his arms just yesterday - now a woman. He thinks he would have done this - peeked into her nursery in the dead of night to check on her. There's so much he would have done; so much he'd planned that she'll never know.

Like most children, Henry sleeps like the dead, but Charming moves down the stairs quietly, careful not to wake Emma. Though, he thinks with a smile, if she is anything like her mother, she'll sleep through a castle siege.

Her mother.

His wife.

_Snow_.

She's curled up in bed too, having nodded off on his shoulder no less than three times at Granny's. There's so much he'd like to tell her - how beautiful their daughter is, how their grandson has inherited her penchant for finding trouble - but she needs rest. There will be time for that later, time enough for everything.

So instead he closes the curtains to the bedroom - _their_ bedroom - and strips down to his boxers for bed. He'll have to fetch his clothes tomorrow, having left them in Emma's room while he had been sleeping there. He couldn't bear the thought of sleeping _here _without her - here, in this bed with memories of David and Mary Margaret's disastrous affair.

They'll have to make new memories here; better ones.

He curls up behind her, hand flush against her abdomen to feel her breath - _in, out; in, out_ - that familiar sign of life, still strong even in sleep. He won't wake her, intent on letting her rest - after all, what's one more night when you've got eternal love? Instead, he presses his face to the back of her neck so his lips can touch that so-soft skin.

"Mmm," she hums, and he feels the vibrations of her voice. "I was waiting up for you."

Trying to at least, he thinks with a smile. "Go back to sleep," he murmurs, lips moving delicately against her flesh. She's drifting between sleep and waking; he knows she'll fall asleep again easily. And she needs her rest. " 's late. And you need rest."

"Charming," she says, her voice low and full of something he hasn't heard in twenty-eight years. David has heard something similar, the memory still clear in his mind. But that had been Mary Margaret and this is _Snow_. His wife. She catches his hand in hers, their fingers lacing easily, and guides it down down down ...

His breath catches.

"Please," she implores, and guides his hand up beneath the hem of her nightgown. (She isn't wearing any underwear; so she really _was_ waiting up for him after all.) Her fingers press against his, pushing them past dense, damp curls to the slick folds beneath. A low moan escapes his mouth - a similar noise resounding from hers as well - as his cold fingertips sink into her heat. He hardens, feels her shift her hips against his own as she relishes the feeling of him, and then can't help but grind his growing erection against her backside.

"Harder," she whispers, angling her hips into his hand.

She's always so eager, so quick to demand what she wants from him - and even after nearly three decades she hasn't changed. But neither has he, and he presses only gently at first, two fingers drawing light circles against her while she wiggles impatiently in his arms. He's done this a thousand times, memorized every inch of her bare skin, branded it with his lips and tongue. The familiarity is a comfort - the first thing to make sense in too long to even comprehend. He knows she likes it slow, likes the feeling of two fingers pressed up inside her, a thumb against her clit. He knows the sway of her breasts as she rides on top, the way her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans down for a kiss. He knows she tastes sweet, knows the feeling of her pawing at his hair when she's close.

But it's been twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years without the taste of her on his tongue, without feeling her flesh between his palms.

He's seen it, of course. Watched her and memorized her all over again in David-vision. But it's been so long since he's _felt_ her and _oh_ this woman will be the death of him.

She's still grinding impatiently against his hand, and so he dares to press harder, just a touch, not wanting this to be over too soon. It's enough though, and she meets him with a satisfied sigh, rocking her hips in rhythm with his touch, and _good god_ her ass was rubbing tormentingly against his cock. She knows she's a tease, and damn proud of it to boot. "Snow-"

He slides his hand further in, daring to dip just one finger inside her to feel that too-smooth skin, perfect against his fingertip. He moves slowly, dragging it out then pushing back with the gentlest of care.

"_More_, Charming," she begs, and reaches behind to tug at his waistband. "_Please._"

He carefully slides a second finger in alongside the first, reveling at the way her breath hitches and then releases with a contented sigh; the way she's so warm and _real_ against him. She's managed to get his boxers down, just enough, and he's barely able to enjoy the freedom before her hand is on him and _oh_. He hardens further in her grasp, going stock still as she trails her hand up and down his shaft, from base to tip then back again. He breathes her name against her ear - her _true_ name - hot and wet, and her hand clenches harder around him in response.

"Need you," she whispers as he presses a kiss to the back of her neck, then to her shoulder blade as he nudges past the fabric of her nightgown.

"How much?" he replies huskily. It's a silly question, he knows, because his heart is about to burst with it himself. She replies by tracing the length of his erection with her fingernails and _oh_ he almost loses it there.

"More than I need to breathe," she whispers, then makes a noise of protest as he moves his hand, pulling it from her sweet-smelling core to trail up the front of her body, sinking in the perfect, unmarred skin of her stomach, the gentle rise of her breasts, before pulling her nightgown over her head. He discards it quickly on the floor, and resumes his careful exploration with his fingertips, seeking out every hidden crevice, trying to memorize every new piece of her. Her abdomen is rounder now, still slim but softer from carrying their child, and his fingertips catch on the slow-healing scratches on her arms - remnants from her time in their realm. Her skin is hot, flushed with the heat of the moment and he knows - knows from memories a lifetime ago, from hazy visions of the lifetime of another man - that she's close on anticipation alone.

He shimmies out of his boxers, kicking them to the foot of the bed beneath the blankets, before curling up around her again, unable to keep his hands off of her. He'd wanted to wait - wait until she'd rested, until they had the apartment to themselves - but it seems he needs _her_ more than he needs any perfect setting.

After all, they've never done anything in the traditional way. Why start now?

She's rising over him a second later, knees straddling his hips as she braces her hands against his chest and sinks down onto him, and he thinks he may be in heaven. He remembers the last time they'd been here - no, not as David and Mary Margaret; she'd never been so bold - but back home as Snow and Charming; remembers pressing his hand to her swollen belly and feeling their child move beneath his palm as she rocked against him. It had been midday, her hair falling all around her, as wild as the moment he'd first set eyes on her.

(She's different now; it - _everything_ - is different now, but she's still the most beautiful creature he's ever beheld - stunning in moonlight.)

"Charming?" she murmurs breathlessly, her hips moving against his. "What are you thinking?"

"That I've missed you," he replies, and cradles her cheek in his palm. "And that I love you."

She covers his mouth with hers in response. It's always been her way of saying 'I love you too;' not that she's afraid to proclaim it, but as if the words themselves are not enough - as she had told him once, actions speak more than words. It's their own language, he thinks. A code he'd never forget, not even after twenty-eight years, and the thought alone has him smiling into the kiss as she strokes against him.

He doesn't last long, but then again, neither does she, and soon they're collapsing together against the pillows, fighting to regain their breath. It's okay, he thinks; there will be more to come - years and years, decades upon decades if he has his way. And though he'll never have enough of her, it's enough for this moment to simply memorize the curve of her spine beneath his fingertips.

Minutes pass, and he feels her breathing even against his neck, feels the weight of her body sagging against him, feels her pulse steady around him. She doesn't move, not even as he reaches down and manages to pull the covers over them, guarding against the winter chill, and he's almost certain she's fallen asleep. Not that he blames her, of course; he's completely spent himself, even if all he wants is to take her in his arms over and over again, to make up for twenty-eight years lost - to promise twenty-eight years to come.

But for now, they'll sleep. There will be time for all that and more come tomorrow.

And the day after.

And the next.

.

The flames come in his dreams. He'd never doubted they would - he'd watched his wife endure them for months, still waking her even in the comfort of their marriage bed. He knows, and so he waits in that world of darkness and fire.

She wakes him, like he knew she would - like he knows she always will - her kiss pulling him from that netherworld, her fingertips soft against his face. He comes to with a gasp, the dream shattering like a curse broken. She doesn't say anything, only reaches to the nightstand, and strikes a match before lighting the candle there.

He watches her face in the flickering light, falls asleep again to the sensation of her fingertips sweeping over his eyelids.


End file.
